


such deliberate disguises

by ghostsoldier



Category: Bully: Scholarship Edition
Genre: Boarding School, Domestic Violence, First Kiss, Gen, High School, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-29
Updated: 2012-08-29
Packaged: 2017-11-13 03:51:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/499148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostsoldier/pseuds/ghostsoldier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tad knows that for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	such deliberate disguises

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and posted in 2007.
> 
> Warnings: domestic violence, minor spoilers for the "Tad's House" mission.

There are rules for this sort of thing. They're quite simple. For outsiders: don't say a word, don't interfere, look the other way, take no notice. How the man deals with his family is his business, and they should've expected it, his eldest in the asylum and all. It's just like they always say -- money can't buy class. It's a shame, really, but...better not to get involved.  
  
For Tad and his mother, the rules are likewise simple: don't talk back, don't fight back, don't let the family down. Make _him_ proud, and do as you're told. Be everything you're supposed to be.  
  
You're a _Spencer_ , after all. Have some goddamn pride.  
  
For Tad's father, the rules are the simplest of all. Don't leave scars, no broken bones. _Never_ in the face. The others look down on them enough as it is, but their family needs discipline, and if they follow their rules, he'll follow his. Maybe someday it will be enough. Not yet, though. Not yet.  
  
There are rules for this sort of thing, but...rules bend. They splinter. They break. The slick ruin of yolk and shattered eggshells littering the inside of the house isn't remotely Tad's fault, but that's the first rule of leadership, isn't it? Everything's _always_ your fault. He should take the responsibility and the punishment both, and leave the rest well enough alone. He knows better. Don't talk back.  
  
When she sees the mess made of her artwork and furniture, his mum's face goes pale and horrified, and at this his father's expression darkens. How in the _hell_ could Tad let this happen?  
  
Take the punishment, boy. You've upset your mother.  
  
The whip-crack of a belt. The welts aren't as bad through his clothes.  
  
Take it. Just...take it.  
  
But Tad is furious and not thinking straight, dizzy with the unfairness of it all. It's not like the others even stayed to help. It was pointless to expect them to, but they could've vouched for him. It was Hopkins . _Hopkins_. And so he does the stupidest thing he could ever do and catches the belt as it whistles midair, yanks it as hard as he can from his father's hand. His knuckles white, his eyes clenched. He yells, "IT WASN'T MY FUCKING _FAULT_!"  
  
The blow is so sudden and unexpected that he doesn't realize what happened until the salty-copper taste of blood floods over his tongue. Even then, there's a sense of disconnect -- it’s happened to someone else. Not him. There are _rules_. He stumbles backward into the wall, and it's only the surprising pain of his head striking the doorjamb that jolts him out of whatever shock he was in.  
  
 _Now_ it hurts. His whole jaw aches, the pain brightening into something hot and sharp as it nears the left side of his mouth. When he touches his fingers to his lips, they come back bloody, and his eyes are wide, astonished. The only sound in the room is his mother's horrified gasp.  
  
His father's face is granite. "Don't ever talk to me like that again."  
  
And Tad, swallowing sticky blood and feeling his stomach churn, whispers, "No, sir."  
  
His mother's trembling hands, trying to grasp his shoulders, trying to keep him, make him stay. "Please," she says, "please, you know how he gets, you know what he's like, you can't _talk_ to him that way..."  
  
Tad shakes free as gently as he can. The walk back to Harrington House is the longest of his life, and the thought of facing them all with defeat in his eyes and blood in his mouth is endlessly more terrifying than the prospect of returning home with his tail between his legs, cowering like a dog that's been kicked too many times. And this is why he has to do it, why he has to face them instead of _him_ : because it's worse. Because it's punishment.  
  
There are rules for this sort of thing.  
  
The way Chad greets him when he gets to the sitting room at the top of the stairs, cheerfully calling, "Ho, old chap, what took you so long?", his voice fading when he sees Tad's face. The way the others swivel from their cards to see what's what, the way their eyes widen before they very carefully look away again and return to their game. It might've been anyone who roughed him up -- he's been gone for a good while, plenty of time to get into a fight -- but they all know better. They _know_. They can see it in his eyes, and this is why they can't look at him anymore. This is what they've always done.  
  
Look the other way. Don’t interfere. Best not to get involved.  
  
Silently, Tad trudges up to the third floor and makes straight for the bathroom, where he sets about cleaning the evidence of his shame from his face. The blood washes away fine; the ugly bruise purpling just under his skin is more resolute. He brushes his teeth in an attempt to get the slick taste of blood out of his mouth, but the harsh chemical sting of the toothpaste is worse and he rinses, spits into the sink until his saliva turns from red to pink to clear. No one enters the bathroom the entire time he's there, and he doesn't expect them to. They’ve always left well enough alone.  
  
But when he pushes open the door to his room, he's astonished to see Bryce sitting on his bed, his eyes focused on the doorway as if he was waiting for this exact moment. In spite of his rigid posture and overall stillness, he looks terribly out of place in Tad's room, which is so strictly organized that it looks more like a photograph from a catalog than a teenage boy's bedroom. Tad's father claims that an organized room is the sign of an organized mind, and so although his mind feels anything _but_ organized, Tad's room is full of clean, straight lines, absolutely nothing out of place.  
  
Nothing, that is, except Bryce. His carefully combed hair, his pressed clothes. He perfectly fits the room's aesthetic, but the sight of him there is jarring and Tad is at a loss for what to say.  
  
Bryce doesn't get up when Tad closes the door and crosses the room, and doesn't shift his position when Tad sits beside him. All he does is watch, eyes tracking his every movement, and it's not until Tad shoots him a faintly exasperated and expectant look than does he finally speak, asking, "Are you quite all right?"  
  
In spite of the pain, Tad clenches his jaw. Looks away. "I'm fine," he says. He jumps when Bryce cups his cheek and firmly turns his head back so they're facing each other once more. The other boy is frowning, his touch careful; the searching intensity of his stare is so acute that Tad has the uncomfortable feeling that Bryce can look right into his head, where he'll pluck out his secrets one by one with no more difficulty than he'd pluck an apple from a tree.  
  
Quietly, Bryce says, "I thought he wasn't supposed to hit you in the face," and Tad recoils from his words and touch alike.  
  
"I don't know what you're talking about," he says. It’s a struggle to push the words past his teeth and into the suddenly too-small room. His tongue feels sluggish and thick. "You should leave. You need to leave."  
  
But Bryce is patient in a way that Tad has never seen, as dangerously focused as a coiled snake about to strike. "We all know, Tad," he says. Quiet, measured tones. "All of us. We _know_."  
  
The trembling in Tad's voice like the trembling in his mother's hands. "Get out. Get the _hell_ out of my room."  
  
Bryce doesn't move, and Tad is pinned by the gentle intensity of his stare.  
  
"I know what it's like." Bryce's voice is soft, like he's trying to soothe a frightened animal. "Not the worst of it, not that part, but facing it all alone, wondering how much everyone knows, _dreading_ it..."  
  
There's a reason there are rules, Tad thinks. The endless silence surrounding him makes it easier to ignore, like it's happening to somebody else -- as long as they all look the other way, he can look the other way too. He wants Bryce to leave, to shut _up_ , to stop looking at him like that, not pity in his eyes but something worse, something far more terrifying. _Empathy_.  
  
Bryce knows. He knows _everything_ , and even though Tad's never told a soul about the panicky dread he feels whenever he does something wrong, _says_ something wrong, Bryce somehow knows it all the same, the sick feeling of helplessness, his mother's tears, the dull rage and fear like a hard, twisting knot. Terror rises in his chest in a choking, inexorable tide, and it’s too much, too _much_ , he can't _think_ , and when Bryce touches his shoulder and says, gently, "I just want you to know you're not alone, that's all," all Tad can do is utter a small, broken sound and cut him short with a frantic and half-panicked kiss.  
  
A kiss. It makes no sense. He'd only wanted Bryce to stop talking, but the words were nowhere to be found. Yet even as it occurs to him to wonder what in the hell he's doing, Bryce hums quietly and slides one hand around to the back of Tad's neck, and he kisses him back like what they're doing makes all the sense in the world.  
  
The heat of it is astonishing.  
  
Bryce lets him set the pace at first, riding out Tad's near-desperate hunger and ferocity with his fingers curled at the nape of his neck and his other hand against his chest; and then the tone shifts, and Tad isn't sure if he's given up control of the moment or if Bryce has gently but firmly eased it away from him.  
  
He supposes it doesn't matter. He'd kissed Bryce hard enough to make his mouth ache anew, but for all that Bryce isn’t nearly as rough, there's a banked intensity to his touch that makes Tad's stomach burn. Like Bryce is holding back, like he doesn't want to hurt him, the way he's framing Tad's face with his hands, his mouth soft and warm and sure. He tastes like peppermint tea, and when Tad manages to unclench one of his hands from Bryce's sweater to slide it up his neck in an awkward caress, Bryce makes a low, urgent sound and deepens the kiss. The slick sweep of his tongue and the pressure of his lips eases the clenching knot in Tad's chest, and what takes its place is something bright and liquid, just as unnerving. With a gasp and a shudder, Tad breaks the kiss and pulls away.  
  
He doesn’t go very far. Bryce's forehead rests against his, and his face is still cradled in the cup of Bryce’s palms.  
  
"Are you all right?" Bryce says.  
  
"I'm fine." With no small measure of surprise, Tad realizes that he means it this time. "Why?"  
  
The ghost of a smile, Bryce's thumb swiping over Tad's lower lip and coming back red. "Because. You're bleeding again."  
  
"Oh." Tad touches the spot with his tongue and tastes iron and salt. "I didn't even feel it."  
  
Bryce's other thumb is smoothing slow circles over his cheekbone. Tad doesn't think the caress is a conscious one -- it's gentle, distracted, lacking the intensity of earlier. That focus is still in his eyes, however, and he watches Tad like he's trying his damnedest to see inside of his head. Abruptly, he says, "Are you sure you're all right? Because you don't have to--"  
  
" _Bryce._ " To Tad's surprise, the other boy goes quiet. "I'm all right," Tad says, and then, when the flicker of worry doesn't leave Bryce's eyes, his expression softens and he says it again. "I'm all right."  
  
"Look..." Bryce draws back slightly, biting his lower lip. His normally perfect hair is mussed from Tad's fingers, and his cheeks are redder than usual, the sort of red that appears only when he's angry or boxing, which for Bryce is often the same thing. For all his earlier confidence, there's now a hesitance to his posture, and the faint unease in his expression makes Tad want to kiss him again.  
  
"Look," Bryce says again. "I'm sorry that I...that I never did anything. Before. I mean. I knew what was going on -- we all knew what was going on -- but we're so used to not saying anything that I..." He breaks off, shaking his head. He can't seem to look at Tad anymore. "I should've said something sooner. I...I apologize."  
  
Tad touches his shoulder, then the small of his back. "I didn't expect you to say anything," he says. "It's not what we _do_."  
  
"Damn it, Tad, maybe we _should_!"  
  
Startled, Tad sits back. Bryce's eyes are blazing with an emotion he can't quite identify, and his voice is so tight that it's shaking.  
  
"All this silence," Bryce says. "For what? Our _reputations_? How in the _hell_ can our reputations be worth a damn when you come in looking like...like..."  
  
He raises his hand, as if he's about to touch Tad's bruised mouth, but he stops himself short and with a start Tad realizes that the look in Bryce's eyes is an almost furious sort of helplessness.  
  
"When you come in looking like this," Bryce says finally. Tad wants to turn from the catch in his voice, but can’t bring himself to move. “And all we do is look the other way."  
  
Tad's voice feels rusty, like it's coming from someplace small and distant. "I don't need you to fight my battles," he says.  
  
"Of course not.” Bryce’s smile is faint. Sad. “But the least we could do is let you know you're not fighting them alone."  
  
There's no denying the warmth in his words. When he slides his arm around Tad’s shoulders, Tad relaxes into the touch and lets Bryce tug him back onto the bed proper, where if he turns his head just right he can hear the insistent thud of the other boy's heartbeat, steady and unwavering. Against all odds, the silence is a comfortable one, and Tad allows himself a moment to close his eyes.  
  
Then Bryce says, "I'm broke, you know," and his eyes snap open again as he pushes himself into a half-sitting position.  
  
"I beg your pardon?"  
  
He doesn’t mean to sound as sharp as he does, but Bryce doesn't seem to notice. He regards Tad with mild, speculative interest, his head pillowed on his other arm. A few wayward strands of hair are falling into his face, but he doesn't try to push them back. Instead, he just blinks and says it again -- "I'm _broke_ ” -- and although Tad recognizes the words, the combination of them together makes absolutely no sense.  
  
Bewildered, he says, "How?"  
  
"My father." Slight tilt to his chin, something almost arrogant about it. Tad is reminded of the way Bryce occasionally taunts his opponents in the boxing ring, cocky, blunt, _daring_ the other person to react. "He gambled away most of it and spent the remainder on women and booze." A knife-flash of a smile, there and gone again in an instant. "Even my trust fund is gone. I've been working at the G &YC in order to pay my tuition...I'd be in public school otherwise."  
  
Bryce _is_ daring him, Tad realizes. The body next to his is rigid and tense, and this is a test of sorts, this sort of admission. Tad could destroy him with it if he chose to, because no matter what Bryce says, their reputations are still the most important thing they have. For some of them, it’s the _only_ thing they have. Bryce, one of the Montroses, one of the oldest and most well-respected families in Bullworth...barely avoiding public school, where his fine clothes and family connections would mean absolutely nothing.  
  
Tad thinks of all the times he's used "poor" as an insult, thinks about Bryce's hands on his face and the touch of his mouth. The shame in his voice when he'd apologized for not speaking with Tad sooner. Tad looks at him, meets his bright, unflinching stare, and when he’s sure he has Bryce’s full attention, he says, simply, “I’m sorry.”  
  
Bryce looks surprised, then pleased at this response. The tension in his expression clears, and Tad settles against his side again, one arm draped loosely over his chest, his head resting on the curve of his shoulder. He lets his eyes close as warm fingers move in his hair.  
  
“Don’t worry about it,” Bryce says. “I’m sure Mom’s family will step in before it all goes entirely to shit. It’s one thing for my father to end up in the poorhouse, but it’s another kettle of fish entirely when it’s their daughter and only grandson.” He sounds like he’s smiling.  
  
For a while, they’re quiet. Through his closed door Tad can hear voices on the next floor down, Derby’s bored, amused drawl and Gord’s far more strident tones, the sound of an argument breaking out over who owes whom what. He wasn’t paying much attention as he’d passed through the room earlier, but he’s fairly certain that Bryce was a part of that card game. Betting with what, he doesn’t know, and he doesn’t even realize he’s spoken aloud until Bryce laughs.  
  
“The sorry remains of my paycheck, actually," he says. "I've been folding so much the others think I'm rubbish at cards, but that's because I haven't been able to match the bets. Wait until I get paid." The arm around Tad tightens briefly, and a faint note of smugness enters Bryce's voice. "Then I'll _really_ show them rubbish."  
  
There’s a crash downstairs and the clatter of poker chips scattering over hardwood floors. Derby's yelling something and Gord yells right back, and over it all Tad can hear Parker pleading with everyone to just calm down, they’ll sort it all out, this is no way for _preps_ to behave. He snorts.  
  
“I bet you wish you were back downstairs, eh?” He’d meant it as a joke, but the other boy's fingers go momentarily still.  
  
“Don’t be daft,” Bryce says softly. “Of course I don’t.”  
  
There's an awkward pause as they both try to sort out the various implications of that remark, until Bryce finally clears his throat and asks in a far more normal voice, “How’s your mouth doing, then?”  
  
“It hurts,” Tad admits. “But not much.” In fact, it hurts a great deal more than that, and he doubts that the kissing helped matters, but he’s certainly not about to say so.  
  
"Hmm," Bryce says. "We should get you some ice."  
  
Tad makes a noncommittal sound, mutters, “I suppose we should," but neither of them move. Warm hand in his hair, the hypnotic lull of Bryce’s heartbeat. There are no rules for this sort of thing, but maybe, for the moment, there don’t need to be.


End file.
